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Bonus chapter.
The mockery rolled over Ethan like water off stone.
"Your doubts come from ignorance."
He said it quietly, without heat. A statement of fact, not an insult.
"What I'm about to show you is the battle armor I spent three months developing. And when I'm done, every person in this room will know whether I'm a genius or a fraud."
The reporters opened their mouths to fire back. Ethan was already turning away.
"General Hale. I'll need your help."
At the edge of the testing ground, General Victor Hale heard his name and felt his stomach drop.
He'd known this moment was coming. A month ago, Ethan had contacted him through Hargrove with a request that had made Hale's blood pressure spike: a fighter jet. Stationed at the facility. Fueled and ready for a live test.
During peacetime, a provincial military commander didn't have the authority to mobilize a fighter jet for a civilian demonstration. That kind of authorization came from the very top. The only reason Hale had been able to agree was that Bureau operatives had shown up at his office with orders bearing the Chancellor's seal.
But standing here now, in front of several hundred reporters and a wall of cameras, watching a seventeen-year-old prepare to do something with a suit of armor and a military aircraft, Hale was having second thoughts.
He walked to the front of the stage, trying to ignore the camera shutters firing like automatic weapons.
"Kid," he said under his breath, leaning close enough that the microphones couldn't pick it up. "Tell me straight. Are you sure about this?"
"Once that jet is in the air and this goes wrong, both of us look like idiots on national television."
Ethan looked at the general with the patient amusement of someone who'd had this conversation before.
"Relax, General. After today, just promise you won't pester me for one of these suits."
Hale almost laughed. Battle armor for military use. That was science fiction. Movie nonsense. Would he beg for this oversized tin can?
Not a chance.
With the fighter jet confirmed and in position at the adjacent testing ground, Ethan turned to Ryan.
"Ryan, I need a favor."
Ryan looked up from his camera. "Name it."
"I need you in the jet. Filming from the cockpit. Everything you see up there, record it."
Ryan's face went through several expressions in rapid succession, none of them calm.
"You want me in a fighter jet?"
"The camera angle matters. Trust me."
Ryan swallowed. Nodded. And walked toward the adjacent testing ground on legs that were doing an admirable job of pretending they weren't shaking.
Within minutes, the preparations were complete. The testing ground's main display screen connected to Ryan's camera feed. The image showed the fighter jet on the runway, engines warming, heat haze rippling off the tarmac.
The jet began its takeoff roll.
Adrian, watching from his seat, felt the first genuine tremor of alarm.
Why does he need a fighter jet?
"Mr. Mercer, this theatrical production is very impressive, but it changes nothing."
His voice was steady. Practiced. The voice of a man who was not going to let a teenager rattle him.
"No matter what show you put on today, it cannot alter the fact that you plagiarized Voss Industries' technology. Everyone's time is valuable. Stop stalling."
The reporters piled on immediately.
"He's right! Just admit it, Mercer!"
"Give up the act and apologize. I'm sure Mr. Voss will be reasonable!"
But the next thing they saw killed every word in their throats.
On stage, the massive circular rig that held the armor began to rotate.
A deep mechanical hum filled the testing ground, vibrating through the floor and up through the soles of everyone's shoes. Three enormous articulated arms, each one thick as a tree trunk, extended from the rig's frame with hydraulic precision.
Ethan walked to the center of the rig and stopped.
The moment he stepped into the circle, the armor activated.
Every panel on the red and gold suit lit up simultaneously. Seams that had been invisible flared with pale blue light. The chestplate pulsed. The faceplate's eye slits ignited with a glow that was less illumination and more awareness, as if the suit had recognized the person standing in front of it.
A mechanical voice echoed through the testing ground, calm and emotionless.
"Detected Mark One user: Ethan Mercer."
"Preparing to equip the Mark One battle armor. Please stand by."
The three mechanical arms moved.
Not clumsily. Not with the jerky, stop-start motion of industrial robotics. They moved with fluid, choreographed precision, reaching toward the armor, detaching components from the display rig, and carrying them toward Ethan's body.
The leg assemblies came first. The arms locked them into place around Ethan's calves, thighs, and hips with a series of sharp, satisfying clicks. Then the torso section, the back panel, the shoulder assemblies. Each piece slotted into the previous one with mechanical perfection, as if the suit had been designed to fit exactly one person and refused to accept anyone else.
The crowd watched in dead silence.
This wasn't a costume being put on. This wasn't a man climbing into a machine. This was a machine claiming its pilot, wrapping itself around him with the purposeful intelligence of technology that was decades beyond anything in this room.
Last came the gauntlets, locking around Ethan's forearms with a hiss of pressurized seals. The helmet descended from above, guided by the central arm, and settled over his head with a final, definitive click.
The faceplate snapped shut.
For one heartbeat, the fully armored figure stood motionless in the center of the rig.
Then the three arms reached into a black metal case at the base of the platform. Their movements were different now. Slower. More careful. The way you handle something that is both very valuable and very powerful.
They lifted a glowing object from the case and brought it toward the armor's chestplate.
A pale blue glow entered the room.
The reporters surged forward in their seats.
"Wait. Is that—"
"Adrian Voss said only ONE reactor was lost. So what is THAT?"
"Did Mercer build another one?"
"That's impossible. Even if you gave him the materials, there's no way—"
"Hold on. Look at the light. Am I crazy, or is it brighter than the one from the press conference?"
The last observation cut through the noise. Several reporters who'd watched the original press conference footage frame by frame leaned forward, comparing their memory of the reactor's glow with what they were seeing now.
The color was the same. The signature pale blue of nuclear fusion. But the intensity was different. Stronger. Cleaner. More concentrated.
As if someone had taken the original design and improved it.
Adrian's face was a mask. Inside, his mind was racing.
He built a second reactor. In three months. While simultaneously building the armor.
That's not possible. My own researchers spent three months with unlimited budget and couldn't even UNDERSTAND the first one.
The arms seated the reactor into the armor's chestplate. The connection engaged with a deep, resonant thrum that everyone in the testing ground felt in their bones.
The armor's glow intensified. Every seam, every joint, every panel blazed with blue-white light for a single, brilliant second before settling into a steady, powerful radiance.
Ethan's voice came through the armor's external speakers, amplified and slightly modulated by the helmet's systems.
"The reporter who noticed the difference is correct."
"The first reactor I built was a simplified version, limited by budget constraints. The materials were commercial-grade. Good enough for a proof of concept, but far from optimal."
"This reactor is different. Built with Dr. Hargrove's support using the highest-quality materials available. Its energy storage capacity and power output stability are on an entirely different level."
At this point, the reporters had stopped mocking. Every one of them was recording. Pens moving, cameras rolling, phones capturing audio. Whatever this was, it was the story of their careers, and they knew it.
"Damn it." Adrian kept his voice low enough that only Dominic, standing beside him, could hear. "It was Hargrove. That old man bankrolled a second reactor."
He'd been so focused on the kid that he'd forgotten about the ninety-one-year-old legend standing behind him. A man with the resources, the connections, and the institutional authority to fund exactly this kind of project without anyone at Voss Industries knowing.
One oversight. One blind spot. And now Adrian was watching his entire case crumble in real time.
But he wasn't finished. Not yet.
He stood up. Straightened his jacket. And spoke with the calm, almost pitying voice of a man delivering a verdict.
"Clap. Clap. Clap."
The slow, deliberate applause cut through the noise, and every head turned toward him.
"Mr. Mercer, I must say, this is impressive. Truly. The theatrics, the lighting, the mechanical arms. It's the best stage show I've seen in years."
His smile was thin and sharp.
"But a glowing ring in a metal suit doesn't prove anything. For all anyone here knows, that 'reactor' is an LED panel and a car battery."
"Your first reactor was verified by Dr. Hargrove at a military facility with proper equipment and trained technicians. This one has been shown to a room full of reporters inside a light show."
"If you want anyone to take this seriously, you'll need to do better than special effects."
The words landed exactly as intended. The reporters who'd been teetering toward belief pulled back.
"He's right. The first time, there was a proper test. This is just presentation."
"That could be anything under the shell. Without verification, it's meaningless."
"Almost got fooled. Nice try, Mercer."
"Exactly! Mr. Voss sees right through it!"
Adrian watched the crowd swing back to his side, and the knot in his chest loosened by one degree.
He was gambling.
Gambling that Ethan couldn't have built a second reactor in three months. That the glow was fake. That the armor was a shell. That the mechanical arms and the dramatic assembly were theater designed to distract from the absence of substance.
His own technicians had told him: even with complete mastery of the technology, building a reactor would take a minimum of six months to a year using the full resources of Voss Industries. And Ethan was one person with borrowed lab equipment.
The math didn't support it.
The math couldn't support it.
Adrian sat back down and crossed his legs, projecting the confidence of a man who'd already won.
Plz Throw Powerstons.